Awakened by the Prince's Passion Read online

  She turned into him suddenly, the puppy between them. She wet her lips with a furtive, unconscious flick of her tongue and he felt the beginnings of a potent arousal. Well, perhaps not beginnings, he’d been fighting it all night ever since she’d picked up the puppy. ‘And your...friendship? Might I hope that is something freely given as well?’ There was the slightest of tremors in her voice, suggesting something beyond friendship. The allusion was irresistible.

  He kissed her then, without thought to plots and plans, as if to show her all else that might be freely given. She responded, her mouth answering the invitation of his with parted lips, her tongue eager for a taste of him. Such a reaction pushed against his sense of restraint. Her need for connection fired his need to supply it, to offer her what she sought even against his better judgement. Any kiss posed a threat to his objectivity and yet, at moments like this, a kiss seemed exactly what his job called for, the best way to serve her, to let her know that whatever she chose, whatever she faced, she was not alone. The carriage hit a rut, jostling them and catching Maximus awkwardly between them until he yelped. There was no choice but to give the kiss up.

  ‘Was that another piece of instruction, too?’ Dasha’s tone was cutting.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ruslan answered cryptically for lack of a better response. He let soothing the puppy claim their attentions for the duration of the drive, a far better option than addressing the questions in Dasha’s eyes. Perhaps, if he was any sort of patriot like Captain Varvakis, he would be pushing his advantage right now, using that kiss to establish his ethos and the revelations of tonight to bolster the logic that would send her back to Kuban.

  Ruslan scratched Maximus behind the ears. It still amazed him how quickly life could turn. Eighteen months ago, he’d awakened on a normal day in Kuban, prepared to eat breakfast and ride out to hunt with his friends, only to receive word one of those friends had been wounded in the night and taken up on charges of treason. Within days, he’d left everything behind to take that friend to safety. Now, here he was in London, settled into a routine of sorts and a home of his own after a year of uncertainty, only to have life turn once more—this time to leave the new behind in order to return to the old.

  The carriage pulled to the kerb and the door opened. Ruslan jumped out and turned back to help Dasha. He scooped up Maximus and settled him in the crook of his arm. The puppy was so very small when considered against his arm. He gave Dasha his other arm and handed the squirmy puppy back to her when her feet were on the ground. ‘Why this one, Dasha? The smallest of the lot?’

  Her cheeks still bore a flustered flush but her eyes were steady when they held his. ‘Because he needed me the most.’ She smiled at Ruslan, softly, ruefully. His stomach tightened with want and worry. He saw the world in that smile, the good and the bad. That was when he knew his plan for the evening had succeeded. Perhaps too well. She would go back. The émigré fantasy was fading even as they mounted the steps to his home.

  They spoke little as they went into the house. The footman at the door leapt to attention and led them upstairs, lamp in hand, before leaving them at Dasha’s door. ‘Thank you for tonight,’ Dasha said. ‘It did help. I will have my decision for you in the morning.’

  Ruslan was not under any illusion that she would be up all night wrestling with that decision. Indeed, she’d likely already made it in the carriage ride home. And he could guess what it was. Dasha was, after all, a woman of duty, just as he was a man of duty. How interesting that he knew her so well after so short of an acquaintance.

  He would have chosen the same way had he been in her position. But that didn’t mean the decision had been an easy one. Neither was it one without risk or sacrifice. Nor did it mean that he would sleep any easier knowing that the die had been cast. In his experience, settling one uncertainty merely created more.

  * * *

  Dasha stood with her hands clasped before her, trying to portray confidence as she faced Ruslan and Captain Varvakis in the drawing room. Lessons were about to commence for the day, but she wanted to make her announcement first. ‘Captain, last night I had two brief but significant recollections.’ She glanced over at Maximus sleeping in a basket near the sofa as she recounted them. When she looked at Captain Varvakis, he was beaming, thrilled with her revelations. Ruslan was more difficult to read. He sat in his chair, splendidly turned out, his hair groomed into careful waves, his face giving away nothing.

  As it should be, Dasha reminded herself. He would not want to influence her decision regardless of his preferences. Or perhaps she’d misjudged him. Maybe he cared little about her decision except for how it affected him. Dasha cleared her throat. ‘I have decided we should make it known to London society and those who might be of use to our cause that the Princess Dasha Tukhachevskenova is among them.’

  There would be no more hiding in the house, no more staying out of sight. There would be a certain kind of freedom in being able to go about as she pleased. And yet another kind of freedom died with those words. Whoever she might have created for herself was gone, the opportunity to start entirely fresh lost for ever. From this day forward, she would be Dasha, regardless of whatever truths she might later learn. ‘We must redouble our efforts to recover my memories by all means possible.’

  Captain Varvakis came forward in a grand gesture of loyalty. He unsheathed his sword and knelt before her, hands gripping the hilt as he bowed his head and kissed the blade. ‘My Princess. You have my sword.’

  Dasha stiffened as the memory swept her. She recognised this ritual, perhaps further proof that she’d chosen wisely in her decision. It was part of the fealty ceremony officers swore to the Tsar. To her father. Really, she ought to get used to thinking of him that way instead of in the third person. Dasha placed a hand on the Captain’s head. ‘Rise, my loyal Captain, and stand prepared to serve.’ The response came ready to her lips, although she’d never have uttered it; she’d been too young and female. This was a ritual between men, unless there was a Tsarina on the throne instead. But she’d have seen the ceremony, probably from behind a screen or from a secluded balcony in the throne room.

  Varvakis stood and her gaze went to Ruslan. A prince wasn’t expected to bow as the Captain had done, but surely some response was required of him? He held her gaze for long heartbeats. For a moment, Dasha feared he would do nothing, or worse, that he would denounce her. At last, Ruslan rose and gave her a nod that might pass as a bow of sorts, his words formal and terse. ‘My service is yours to command, Princess. If you would excuse me, there are things I need to look after given this development. Captain Varvakis is more than capable of handling this morning’s lesson material on the royal palace.’ A lesson she had to master more than ever.

  Princess. Not Dasha. She closed her eyes against the words, against the reminder of what her decision had cost. He was hers to command now because of rank and situation. They would not be equals. Perhaps they never had been. When she’d arrived, she’d been the subordinate: needy, confused, requiring his support in all ways. She still needed it, but now it would be commanded instead of given. The days of what he could ‘freely’ give her had come and gone in the blink of an eye. This handful of days had not nearly been enough.

  ‘Excuse me, Captain.’ Without explanation to Varvakis, Dasha followed Ruslan out into the hall, shutting the drawing-room door firmly behind her. What she needed to say to him was not for the Captain’s consumption. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were angry.’ Her words caught him in mid-step. ‘Is this not the choice you wanted me to make?’

  Ruslan turned to face her, his expression expertly veiled. ‘My wants have nothing to do with the decision. It is your choice alone.’ The cryptic response made her wonder if last night had been designed as a temptation to begin again or as a cautionary lesson against such temptation. She’d assumed it had been meant as a nudge towards the decision to put on the mantle of her authority. Had she been wrong?
Had he been subtly arguing for her to stay all along? They were too newly acquainted for her to read anything more into it, yet she felt as if she’d known Ruslan far longer than a scant few days.

  ‘Do you wish I had chosen differently?’ She put the question to him boldly, wondering: Did he mean so that she could stay in London, so that the issue of her royalty could be set aside, so that they could explore the spark that crackled between them? But such a conclusion staked far too much on a kiss.

  ‘I wish for you to be safe.’ Ruslan’s stoic façade did not crack. What a formidable courtier he must have been. In truth, she found that stoicism attractive, a sign of his strength, even as she wished to crack it, perhaps because she’d seen the boyish smile he was capable of on the other side of this coin.

  ‘I hope you have made this decision thoughtfully with an understanding of the dangers you will undoubtedly face.’ In these moments, he was acting the part of her advisor, a man who must present the facts without emotional attachment. She could not allow herself to view him as the man who’d kissed her senseless, twice now. Nor could she attach any meaning to those kisses beyond the face value he’d assigned them—instructive units, only. His kisses had to remain in the vacuum of the time in which they’d occurred. A princess knew better than to do otherwise.

  ‘You have laid out the risks admirably and honestly,’ Dasha answered with as much formality as she could muster: assassination, rejection, failure. If she survived London, there was no guarantee Kuban would accept her. Not everyone would be glad to see a royal survivor. Ruslan had been clear on all accounts. That task she’d set before her was daunting in the extreme.

  ‘There are those who will doubt and test you, looking for any opportunity to discredit your claim. There will be those who won’t bother to test you. The kind that will shoot first and wonder later. You will need to be on your guard every time you step outside this town-house door from now on,’ he reminded her. ‘Are you ready for that?’

  Ready not only for the assassins, should they exist, but ready for the doubters who would call her an imposter out of their own desperation. He was talking about the Rebels, the ones who were so sure she’d died that night with her family and retainers, and the ones who had more to gain through her death. They would feel threatened by her return. Was it wrong that she was more worried about them than the possibility of an assassin’s bullet?

  Ruslan’s hand was gentle at her elbow, ‘What is it, Dasha?’ Her face must have given her away. He pulled her into a small anteroom off the hall. ‘Something troubled you just then.’

  She shook her head, covering up her hesitation, her own worry. ‘The situation is intimidating, at times. It seems my chances for success are slim and yet how can I live with myself if I do any less?’ That was only part of it. What she’d grappled with last night hadn’t been the risks or dangers of returning. She already understood and accepted those. What she’d grappled with was the ethics of her decision when weighed against her doubts. Even if her doubts of her own identity proved true, could she afford not to be the Princess? Kuban needed Princess Dasha in some form. Her conclusion was that even a figurehead would go a long way in averting civil war, if a compromise could be reached between factions.

  Ruslan gave her a keen stare. ‘Are you sure that’s all?’

  She looked down, smoothing her skirts, and gave a half-laugh. ‘Yes, aren’t assassins hiding around every corner enough?’

  He let go of her elbow, only partially believing her. She could see the lingering doubt in his eyes. ‘If there’s ever anything you want to tell me, or want to talk about, you can trust me, Dasha. You can tell me. In fact, you should tell me. I can best protect you if I know everything.’ Her protector. Not even the dramatic flair of Captain Varvakis’s declaration of fealty equalled the quiet force of Ruslan’s words and they set her stomach fluttering. This lean, well-honed steel rapier of a man would be a formidable barrier between her and those who might wish her ill. She’d be safe in London, she had no doubt. But was if fair to ask it of him? To expect him to protect a woman who might not be who he thought she was?

  Would you protect me even if I wasn’t the Princess, even if I were only playing at it for a good cause?

  Standing here in the little ivory-papered anteroom, she wanted to blurt out her last great secret, wanted to lay that secret on his shoulders if only to have someone listen to her. Captain Varvakis had merely shrugged off her worries, explaining them away as imaginings of an overstressed mind.

  She didn’t dare take the risk. What if her admission appalled Ruslan? What if he turned away from her? Rescinded his help? She didn’t want to find out. She needed him. He’d become her bulwark in a very short time. She suspected it was his gift. He was many peoples’ bulwark. He inspired that sort of confidence. She also suspected she wasn’t the first woman to be so ‘inspired’ by him. But she might be the first who had to resist. Besides, she would leave London at some point. There could be nothing more than what existed between them right now. He could be her advisor, her protector. That was all a queen could have.

  He touched her again, a gentle brush of his fingers at her sleeve. ‘All right then, I need to be off rallying your troops and you have lessons to see to. Tonight, be ready to go out. Madame Delphine will bring the first of your dinner gowns this afternoon. You will need it.’

  Dasha gave a little laugh, caught off guard with the shift in conversation. They’d gone from revolutions to dinner parties. ‘We have no invitations.’

  ‘We will.’ Ruslan pulled out a pocket watch and flipped open the plain gold face. ‘By five o’clock tonight, we’ll have three.’

  Dasha smiled, playing along gamely. ‘And if you’re wrong?’

  Ruslan gave her a boyish grin. ‘Then I owe you an ice at Gunter’s before it gets too cold out to appreciate one.’ He snapped his watch shut with purpose. ‘Now, I really must be off or you will win by default.’

  Chapter Nine

  She did win by default. At the stroke of five o’clock, there were not three, but four invitations to various dinner parties being given throughout the fashionable city. Ruslan sifted through the offerings on the salver, pleased with the result, even if Dasha had the good-humoured indecency to gloat over her victory.

  ‘However did you manage?’ Dasha looked over each invitation with him in the hall, Maximus in her arms squirming while she petted him. Both of them recognised the invitations were nothing short of a social coup considering it was well past the Season and anyone who was anyone had decamped from the city in mid-August for their grouse moors. Still, the running of an empire didn’t stop simply because Parliament was out of session. There were important people about town if one knew where to look. Ruslan knew where to look.

  ‘When Nikolay started taking an interest in Klara, I made it my business to know every notable in the Foreign Office,’ Ruslan explained modestly. He’d done more than know them in a nominal sense. He knew their connections, their situations and their politics. He knew which diplomats were unashamedly ethnocentric in their outlooks on empire building and which ones had a care for the natives already in place. He knew which ones had a true thirst for the work of international relations and which ones persevered for the sake of lining their own pockets.

  ‘Well.’ Dasha set Maximus down on the floor. ‘Which one shall we choose?’

  ‘This one.’ Ruslan extracted the third invitation from the pile. ‘Lord Bradford-Piles. I have it on excellent authority that Canning, the Foreign Secretary, is to be on hand. He is exactly who we want to meet. He has liberal politics that should work to our advantage. I’ll explain them to you in the carriage. Dinner is at eight. You’ll have time to dress and go over your information one last time with the Captain.’ He paused in his list of orders, catching the hesitation in Dasha’s gaze as it drifted away. Ruslan forced himself to slow down. ‘Tonight is important, Dasha. Canning can give us funds and support t
o march back to Kuban.’

  Dasha’s eyes flashed. ‘I know.’ Her tone was sharp. He saw the flash of hesitation in her eyes reminiscent of the afternoon. Something was bothering her, something besides returning to Kuban. ‘That’s why I’m worried. What if I’m not ready?’ She reached for the stack again. ‘Perhaps we should pick someone less important and start small?’

  Ruslan covered her hand with his. ‘You’re ready.’ Besides, there was no time. It was sheer luck Canning was here at all. The Great Powers were meeting in Vienna. Canning was supposed to be there but had sent Wellington at the last. Still, as good as the opportunity was, Ruslan would not have pushed it if Dasha wasn’t ready. She was prepared, in many tiny ways. He’d feared they’d have to teach her everything, how to walk, how to talk, but she knew all that instinctively as if it were second nature to her. All he and the Captain had to teach her were the details; the history of her family, the layout of the palace, the politics of Kuban and key players who represented each side. Yes, there was more to learn, but she knew enough. She was ready enough. ‘If we don’t go now, when, Dasha? It’s too easy to put it off. If it’s any consolation, I doubt Canning will drill you with minutiae. He doesn’t know much about Kuban. He’ll be more interested in your escape and that you’re here. He’ll want to know what your plans are.’

  ‘And my memory? Are we to tell him about that?’ she asked the question tentatively.

  ‘I don’t think it will come up.’ Ruslan would make sure it didn’t. There could be no doubt that she was capable of leading. This was the one sticking point in the plan. If anyone learned of her memory loss, now that she was declaring herself publicly, there would be scandal and worse. She could end up branded as delusional and, if the Union of Salvation learned of it, she might find herself tucked away in an asylum for being crazy—a perfect solution for the problem of an inconvenient survivor. ‘Hopefully, by the time anything is decided, your memories will have returned in full force. We’ve already made quite a bit of progress.’ He would not burden her with his concerns. She had enough to worry about. He could protect her from assassins, but asylums might be trickier. She had no family to speak for her if it came to that. Well, he’d cross that bridge if they ever came to it. In the meanwhile, he would do his best to see that they didn’t.